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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652622">Once More, With Feeling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crosley_Tower/pseuds/Crosley_Tower'>Crosley_Tower</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marianne (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cheating, Emma is an asshole, F/F, Fantasizing, Implied Sexual Content, Pining, Pre-Canon, drunk makeout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:00:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crosley_Tower/pseuds/Crosley_Tower</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Camille tries not to think about Emma like that. Emma is engaged. Emma is her *boss*, sort of. But a few shots of vodka later, Camille doesn’t know what to do with herself when Emma’s wandering eyes land on her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Camille/Emma Larsimon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Once More, With Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>***TW for vomiting and passing out in section 2</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Camille fiddled with the coaster at her table. The surface was tacky against her fingers, especially along the dark rings marking the ghosts of spilled drinks past. They were in a janky bar just on the outskirts of Lyon, which Emma clocked within five seconds of crossing the city limits. She demanded they go after the live reading, but Camille would only agree if Emma behaved herself. They left the venue with only two attendees demanding refunds and no culture journalists in tears—so, all in all, a good day when it came to Emma. </p><p>Camille was used to cleaning up Emma’s messes at this point. Where Emma was all jagged edges and snark, Camille was a warm hug and a promise of brighter days after the storm. People had a hard time returning tickets or pressing charges after talking to Camille. How could Emma Larsimon be that bad if someone like Camille stayed around? Some days she suspected that was the real reason why her boss assigned her to be Emma’s assistant in the first place; not her skills or seniority to the other assistants at the publishing house, just her sweet words and polite disposition. </p><p>Emma returned to the table, setting down two shot glasses and an extra large bottle of Grey Goose. Camille gaped. </p><p>“What is this?” she asked. “I thought you were getting drinks.”</p><p>Emma shrugged, sliding into the booth. “This is a drink.”</p><p>She twisted off the bottle cap, filling the shot glasses to the quivering brim. Camille eyed them with hesitation. </p><p>“Don’t tell me you harassed the poor bartender for this.”</p><p>“I’m a writer, Cam Cam!” Emma said with a wink. “I’m persuasive.”</p><p>She slid a shot glass in Camille’s direction and picked up her own. </p><p>“To Lizzie Larck,” Emma said. “And the next fat wad of cash that tripe will earn me.” </p><p>Camille frowned but picked up her own shot glass. The Lizzie Larck novels had been Emma’s whole life since she finished high school. Though Emma had never been a stranger to the self-deprecating humor that came with being popular with the YA crowd, her recent jabs had been directed at her own characters and the world she’d spent so long crafting. </p><p>“Don’t pay her any mind,” Camille’s boss had told her before the book tour. “Just make sure she keeps turning in her pages on deadline.”</p><p>Emma knocked back her shot and turned the empty glass in her hands. </p><p>“Come on, Camille! I’m not going to drink by myself. I look like an alcoholic,” she said. </p><p>Camille rolled her eyes and downed her shot, making a face at the unexpectedly hot bitterness of the vodka. Emma laughed at her. </p><p>“I don’t think that’s Grey Goose,” Camille said. </p><p>“And thank god for that.”</p><p>More shots followed. Normally Camille wouldn’t keep partaking, but it had been a long book tour. This was the first break they’d had in two weeks. Emma might have behaved today, but who knew what next time would bring? Emma didn’t have time to make fun of her expressions as Camille drank the fake Grey Goose; she was too busy scanning the room with narrowed eyes and a bitten lip, like a hunter admiring prey. </p><p>Emma leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, “Now, help me decide on my next affair…”</p><p>Camille scoffed. “Don’t even joke about that! Pierre is taking unpaid vacation days to moderate next week’s Q&amp;A!”</p><p>Emma ignored her. For someone who’d been engaged for a month, she hardly talked like a taken woman. Instead, she pointed at different people around the bar. </p><p>“He’d be good. Him. <em> Definitely </em> him. Them, but only at the same time.”</p><p>“Emma!”</p><p>“Him, him with the hat, him... her.”</p><p>Camille turned red. Emma smirked at her. As long as Camille had known her, Emma hadn’t given any indication that she might be interested in anyone except tall, dark-haired men. Despite the undercut, knockoff Converse, and loose-fitting hoodies, she seemed to be as straight as an arrow. It threw Camille off at first, but she soon realized that it was just another in the long line of contradictions that was Emma Larsimon. </p><p>Contradictions and disappointments. </p><p>“What? You don’t like her?” Emma asked, sliding her arm around the back of the booth, just above Camille’s shoulder.  </p><p>“She’s…” </p><p>Camille glanced over at the woman in question. She sat at a table with four companions, standing out like a sore thumb among the jeans and t-shirts with a short black dress. From Camille’s seat, she had a full view of her long legs, crossed at the knee. Her dress rode up her thighs just enough to reveal one lacy garter and the barest hint of another. She ran a hand through her short brown hair, exposing the curve of a flower tattoo along her clavicle. Camille had the odd thought that the woman looked a bit like her, if she ever shed the glasses and the uptight demeanor. The woman relaxed into her body, allowing it to fall where it would. Before Camille could look away, the woman met her gaze and gave her a slow, lingering once-over. Camille averted her gaze and knocked back another shot. </p><p>“She’s fine,” Camille said. “Pretty.”</p><p>Emma laughed, “Cam Cam, you are a lady killer is what you are.”</p><p>“Am not!”</p><p>“Have you even been with a woman before?”</p><p>“Yes, actually,” she huffed. Emma would know that if she bothered to pay attention to anyone but herself. In fact, Camille’s longtime girlfriend broke up with her a few months after she started working for Emma—too enamored with the job, she’d told her. Not enough time for dates. “Have you?”</p><p>Emma shrugged. Her arm brushed past Camille’s as she reached for the bottle again. “I’ve thought about it.” </p><p>“Many people have.”</p><p>“Ah, but you see, I’m different,” said Emma. “I’m actually going to do something about it.”</p><p>“Oh, are you?” said Camille. “And what are you going to do? Just walk up to her and ask her if you can fumble beneath her skirts for a night?”</p><p>Emma mock scoffed. “I’m capable of much more than a fumble.”</p><p>“You’ve never even kissed a woman.”</p><p>At that moment, Emma cupped her hand around Camille’s cheek, pulling her forward and pressing their lips together. </p><p>Emma kissed her slow and deep. A million thoughts rushed through Camille’s head, all of them tempered by the alcohol and the sudden rush in her stomach as Emma threaded her fingers through her hair. Her lips parted on instinct, returning the kiss before the thinking part of her brain reminded her to get back to earth before she did anything stupid. </p><p>Then, Emma pulled away and smirked. </p><p>“There. Now I’ve kissed a woman,” said Emma. “How did I do?”</p><p>Camille’s mouth opened and closed like a dumbstruck fish. She could feel her face turning beet red. A part of her was rushing to come up with an answer that successfully explained the heat rising in her chest and the eagerness with which she kissed back, but by taking too long she knew that she’d already given an answer. </p><p>The moment Camille took the job, she agreed not to lie to herself—Emma Larsimon was gorgeous. And she knew it, too. It’s why she could afford to dress down and show up half drunk to book events while still looking halfway presentable. It was easy for her to get away with things, flaunting her devil-may-care charm with a bat of her long eyelashes. She had the attitude of a person who knew they could eat the world whole and the world would thank them for it. Emma knew that all she had to do was give Camille one look—a daring smirk or a childish pout—and Camille would give in to nearly anything she wanted. It wasn’t even a matter of helplessness on Camille’s part. Sure it was hard to say no to Emma, but there was also very little that Camille couldn’t handle. It wasn’t a boast, just a fact. If Emma wanted to do something, she would do it; it just helped that Camille was there to put out her fires before they started. It was an odd partnership, but it worked. </p><p>And in those rare occasions when their interests aligned, there was very little that anyone could do to stop them both.  </p><p>“Judging by your silence, I’d say I’m ready for a bit more than a fumble,” said Emma. She began sliding out of the booth. “Wish me luck.”</p><p>Camille rested a steadying hand on Emma’s forearm. </p><p>“Maybe not yet,” she said. Her eyes drifted down to Emma’s lips despite herself. God, why on earth was she doing this? “You should try again. Just to be safe.”</p><p>A sly, satisfied smile broke across Emma’s face. She placed her hand on Camille’s knee, sliding it up her thigh. </p><p>“And then what?” she asked.</p><p>•••••</p><p>Camille nearly dropped her purse as she shuffled through it for her apartment keys. Emma pressed herself to Camille’s back, hooking her thumbs through the belt loops of Camille’s jeans. She kissed down Camille’s neck, somehow managing to hit every single sensitive spot on her exposed skin.  </p><p>“Emma, please—”</p><p>“You’re so tense...”</p><p>Finally Camille found the key and twisted it into the lock. </p><p>They stumbled in, a mass of tangled limbs and half-removed jackets. Emma pressed Camille against the wall in a heated kiss. Camille slid her fingers into Emma’s hair, tugging at Emma’s lower lip with her teeth and drawing out a breathy groan. Camille shuddered at the sound. There was something about the fact that the groan was her doing, that Emma was putty in <em> her </em> hands, that made her heart race. Emma wasn’t the only one who could fluster and toy with others. </p><p>Emma’s hand slid beneath Camille’s shirt onto her stomach, trailing its way upward to cup her breast.  Camille pressed her leg between Emma’s thighs. </p><p>“Fuck, Camille...”</p><p>“Bedroom?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They made their way to Camille’s bedroom, mouths rough and hot against each other. Shirts were discarded and buttons were undone. Emma slid her hand down Camille’s pants, fumbling to find her clit through the numbness of the alcohol and the darkness of the room. </p><p>Camille chuckled. “Having trouble there?”</p><p>“Shut up!” Emma laughed against Camille’s lips. “You’re so distracting.”</p><p>“It’s not like I can help it,” Camille quipped.</p><p>Emma smiled. The next kiss was much gentler, uncharacteristic for Emma who liked things fast and urgent. Camille let her hands drift to Emma’s waist and pulled her closer. She promised herself that she wouldn’t think about this too hard the next morning—how Emma was so soft with her just then, how her heart raced as Emma moaned her name and it sounded exactly like she had imagined. She wanted more of that sound. She wanted it like she needed a cigarette. She wanted it straddled on the bed with her mouth between Emma’s thighs; in the back of the car on the way home from a Q&amp;A from just the friction of their hips; against a hotel room door with an unsuspecting Pierre on the other side; softly, chastely while walking hand in hand down down the street, with no need in the world to hide. </p><p>But then it stopped. Emma froze in place and pulled away from the kiss. Her face was pale. </p><p>Camille frowned and scanned her face, suddenly very concerned. “Are you okay?”</p><p>Emma lurched backward, holding a hand to her stomach and shaking her head. </p><p>“I… I think I—”</p><p>At that moment, she doubled over and retched onto the ground. Camille ran to her side. </p><p>“Emma!”</p><p>She crouched and helped Emma into a seating position. The vomit pooled down her middle and spread thickly across the hardwood floor. It dripped from the barely-missed lip of the garbage bin and soaked into the carpet. Emma mumbled something, but Camille couldn’t make it out. </p><p>“Shit,” Camille hissed to herself. </p><p>Emma’s eyes drifted closed. Her head lolled to the side to rest in the crook of Camille’s neck. The weight of it made Camille fall backwards onto her ass. It was 2:37am, and she was trapped between the full weight of Emma and her bedroom floor, with the stench of vomit, cheap vodka, and sweat. </p><p>She gathered herself for a moment, taking deep breaths. It was okay. They were fine. Emma was fine. </p><p>Camille carefully slid out from under Emma, locking her arms beneath her shoulders and tugging her up onto the bed. She rolled Emma onto her side, removing her shoes and setting them neatly by the nightstand. Her brain was on autopilot at that point, retreating to the kitchen to grab towels for Emma, and a mop and spray for the carpet. The vomit was cleaned up as well as it could be for tonight—Camille’s hands were clumsy with drunkenness and she was sure she had missed a spot or twenty—and then she proceeded to dress Emma in a loose-fitting set of pajamas.</p><p>“‘S comfy…” Emma mumbled, as Camille tucked her in with a soft blanket. </p><p>Camille half smiled. She returned to the hallway to pick up their strewn clothes and toss them into the laundry basket. Emma probably wouldn’t wake up until much later that day, so Camille decided she had time to do a load of laundry before then. She changed into shorts and a hoodie from yesterday’s load, and returned to the bedroom with two glasses of water for the morning. Emma was sound asleep on her side. Camille considered going into the living room but finally decided to lay beside her, on top of the sheets. She didn’t think Emma would vomit again, but she would stay up just in case. </p><p>Asleep, Emma looked so peaceful. In action, she was all quirked eyebrows and teeth, ready with the next sarcastic jab and her trigger-happy middle finger. Camille had always been convinced that it was mostly an act. She knew practiced swagger when she saw it. It was why Emma’s words had no edge to them when she hurled them in Camille’s direction. She was all bark and no bite, and Camille knew it. Seeing Emma in bed like this, deep in sleep and huddled in her clothes, only made her more certain of that. Emma tailored herself before going out into the world, but there was no tailoring tonight. </p><p>Camille stayed awake until the sun was barely rising, and then she finally let herself sleep. </p><p>•••••</p><p>Emma walked into the kitchen the next morning as Camille was preparing breakfast. </p><p>“Good morning,” Emma mumbled. </p><p>Camille glanced over. She noticed deep bags beneath Emma’s eyes. There was a dried crust of drool by the corner of her thin mouth. In her hand was the glass of water Camille had left on the nightstand. </p><p>“Good morning,” she replied. “You’re up early. Did you sleep well?”</p><p>“I think?” Emma sat at the tiny kitchen table, draining the last of the water. She gestured toward her pajamas. “Thanks for the loan, by the way. How hard did I have to bargain for them?”</p><p>Camille frowned. She slid the eggs onto two plates and brought them to the table. </p><p>“You don’t remember?”</p><p>Emma shrugged. “We were at the bar, I talked the guy into giving me a full bottle, we did shots… and then lights out.” </p><p>“Emma, we—”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear it.”</p><p>Camille blinked at her. “Excuse me?”</p><p>Emma laughed, far too easily. “Drunk Emma’s business is Drunk Emma’s business. You’ll only embarrass me. Save the stories for the Pulitzer afterparty once my first real novel is out. Okay, Cam Cam?”</p><p>She gave Camille those fake puppy dog eyes, and Camille swallowed her words. </p><p>“Anyways,” Emma continued, “sorry. I must have been a pain. I’m a sloppy drunk.”</p><p>Camille cast her eyes down. “That’s not news to me. I’m your assistant, remember?”</p><p>“Pierre is going to be pissed…”</p><p>Emma devoured her eggs, but Camille suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. She slid her eggs into Emma’s plate. </p><p>“Your clothes are in the dryer,” she said. “They should be ready soon.”</p><p>Emma grinned. “What would I do without you, Cam Cam?”</p><p>Camille didn’t answer. It was a little rude, but she would allow herself a shred of rudeness this morning. She would make up for it later, joining Emma on the taxi ride home and buying her a coffee along the way. She gently scolded her about her late manuscript pages, as she always did, which was always a hopeless endeavor. Emma only did what Emma wanted, after all. </p><p>Pierre waited for her at the front door, looking slightly frustrated as Emma poked his side and made fun of his expression. He nodded at Camille in thanks. Camille smiled thinly and looked away. Emma flipped her off with a smile before closing her apartment door behind them as if nothing had happened at all. </p><p>Because nothing had. </p><p>•••••</p><p>They were in Elden. Emma sat by the water’s edge as Camille and the Shipwreck Punks got acquainted. Nono hovered around Camille, taking every chance he could to brush up against her or hold her hand as he refilled her glass. Emma’s chest filled with a hot rage, but she supposed that was what happened when your ex flirted with your assistant-slash-friend. </p><p>Aurore slapped Nono on the shoulder as he tried pouring Camille a third drink. He laughed and stepped back, arms raised in surrender. Camille shook her head, laughing, and politely handed Aurore her glass. Emma and Camille’s eyes met at that moment. Emma pointed at the Shipwreck Punks and twirled her finger by her temple in a “cuckoo” motion. Camille smiled and pointed back and forth between them and Emma, shrugging. Emma laughed. </p><p>People never believed Emma when she said so, but sweet little Cam Cam could be an asshole when she really wanted to. She was just good at hiding it, was all. It was the main reason Emma liked her so much. </p><p>Nono had said Camille was pretty. Emma supposed he was right, in a way. Camille’s pouty lips and turned-up nose made her cute in a mousey kind of way. She was pretty in the way your elementary school teacher was pretty when she slipped you a sweet before recess. She was pretty like a secret. So, yes, Emma supposed Nono was right, for once. In response, Emma had told Aurore that Camille was already dating someone. </p><p>Bald-faced lies came easily to Emma. She didn’t usually have to lie. Sometimes she lied simply because she could. </p><p><em> Where are you from? </em> Just outside of Strasbourg. </p><p><em> Are your parents still married? </em> They’re both dead. </p><p><em> How are you and your fiancé doing? </em>He cheated on me. </p><p>Easy as that. </p><p>Most of her lies had no effect on her life. Emma realized early on that people only asked questions just to say that they had asked them. Once they were given an answer, true or otherwise, they could end the conversation while still patting themselves on the back for their politeness. It was all a farce, so Emma lied. </p><p>This particular lie had a bit more bearing on her life than usual. She couldn’t have Nono fucking her assistant, especially when Aurore still had the hots for him. It was inconvenient to marry her old and new lives together, so Nono was better off believing that Camille had some accomplished, Type-A boyfriend waiting for her back home. It was an easy enough lie to construct. Mr. Type-A cooked breakfast for her on the one day a week she slept in, and bought her expensive hardcovers whenever she asked. He owned a smart car and cut down on meat because it was good for the environment. He didn’t really drink anymore, but the few times they drank together he would kiss the vodka taste from her lips and watch her blush at the PDA. He also wouldn’t unknowingly curse out Camille’s mom at a Q&amp;A, or take her home for the first time and puke all over her floor. Camille’s Type-A boyfriend was the honest, respectable sort. He was above all that.</p><p>Writers traded in lies, and Emma was a damn good writer. Stories had to unfold elegantly. If you didn’t kill your darlings, your editor would kill them for you. Emma was no stranger to it. She could cut out any confounding details, even a clumsy, sexy, fumbling night that still made heat ignite in her chest. It was a superfluous incident, at the end of the day, regardless of how many times she conjured it back into her mind so she could come properly during sex with Pierre. </p><p>In Emma’s story, Camille had to be taken. Because Emma didn’t know what to do if she wasn’t. </p><p>That day, Emma drank and drank and drank. And when she closed her eyes, she felt the ghosts of slender fingers carding through her hair, followed by a pair of soft lips on her own. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I always liked saying that the biggest mistake in “Marianne” was that the Shipwreck Punks were all straight, but then I read an interview where the showrunner said he wanted to give Emma *two* lady love interests (including Camille) in S2. In my head, “Marianne” works best as a one season show, but I’m feeling *quite* validated. </p><p>I only know like two people irl who’ve watched this show, so I decided to share this here. Happy to join the ranks of all 9 fic writers in this fandom.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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